Tell the Truth. Amanda Brittany

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      I rose and slipped the battered box onto the worktop, and lifted Grace up into my arms, burying my nose into her dark curls. She smelt of strawberry shampoo. ‘So did you have a lovely time with Angela?’ I said, as the kettle boiled.

      ***

      The phone blasted on my bedside table. It was 7 a.m. Only one person would ring so early – someone who got up at five.

      ‘Emmy,’ I said as I answered the call, my voice croaky.

      ‘I’m so sorry about the odd phone call yesterday, Rachel,’ she said. If she’d been angry about my comments on air about her childhood, she’d let it go.

      ‘It wasn’t your fault. And I’m sorry too … for rushing off like that.’

      ‘No worries. You dealt with it all amazingly while you were on air. After the break we had that cute contestant from The Bake Off on, and carried on as though nothing had happened. There’s been a few tweets about it, but nothing major.’

      ‘Thank God.’

      ‘Live TV, especially phone-ins, can be a nightmare.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

      ‘I’m fine, honestly,’ I said, pulling myself up to a sitting position, and propping myself against the headboard.

      ‘I still can’t believe they let him stay on the line for so long.’ Her TV persona was confident, loud and bubbly, yet the real Emmy – the one on the other end of the line, was softly spoken. ‘The guys handling the phone lines said he sounded upbeat and friendly when he called in. Had a great question to ask you.’

      ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said, raking my fingers through my hair. Despite ‘Polly put the Kettle on’ playing in my head during the night, I felt sure I was over the call. Lawrence had left. My mum was ill. I wasn’t about to let some creepy caller add another layer of worry to my life. ‘It was just some fool with nothing better to do,’ I said, sounding strong. ‘I’m sure the call wasn’t aimed at me personally.’

      ‘I’m not so sure, Rach,’ she said. Words I didn’t want to hear. The phone line went quiet for a few moments, and I imagined her twirling a curl of her hair around her finger, forming the words she sometimes struggled to get out. A trauma twelve months ago had triggered a childhood stammer, although she could mainly control it now and rarely stuttered on air. ‘The thing is …’

      ‘What is it, Emmy?’ I leaned forward on the bed, and threw back my quilt, suddenly hot. ‘What’s happened?’

      ‘Nothing’s happened exactly,’ she went on. ‘And to be honest, I’ve been deliberating over whether to tell you – but then I feel you should know. Just in case.’

      ‘Just in case what?’ The hairs on my arms rose.

      ‘The thing is, a man came to the studio looking for you earlier this morning.’

      ‘Was it the man who called in?’ Is that fear in my voice?

      ‘No. Well, I don’t think so. I don’t know who he was, but he was quite normal, nothing like the bloke on the phone. He was waiting outside when I arrived. He’d been there a while, as he was soaked through.’

      ‘It’s raining?’ I glanced at the window. Part of me didn’t want to hear what she had to say. Let’s talk about the weather instead.

      ‘It’s dried up now. Rach, are you taking this in? Did you hear what I said?’

      I nodded, as though she could see me, before rising and pacing the room. ‘Of course. Yes.’

      ‘He didn’t tell me his name, despite me asking several times.’ Another pause. ‘Just that he was desperate to talk to you. I hope I’ve done the right thing in telling you. I thought you should know.’

       Just in case.

      ‘Yes, yes thanks, Emmy. You did the right thing.’

      ‘He looked nice. Normal,’ she said. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about, Rachel. Listen, I must go, I’m back on the air in five. Talk soon. And please don’t worry.’ She ended the call before I could answer.

      It’s nothing, I told myself, continuing to pace the bedroom. I’d been on TV. Things like this happen all the time. But my neck tingled, and a chill ran through my body. Had it been the same man who called in to the studio?

      And if it was, why was he looking for me?

       Chapter 2

       February 2018

      We were on our way. Zoe driving, me holding on to the overhead handle, knuckles turning white.

      She always drove too fast, and was taking the car to seventy mph along dark, narrow roads. Twigs, like bony fingers, scraped the window as she raced past the hedgerow, barely missing oncoming traffic. Despite the harrowing journey, I was looking forward to the evening ahead with my friend. It would be good to unwind, and I loved being with Zoe. She was the tonic to my gin.

      It had been a long two months since Lawrence left. At first I was grieving, I supposed – well, I’d certainly wanted him dead. But after an initial love affair with gin and chocolate – a useless attempt to shave off the sharp edges of my crap life – I’d almost accepted we were over, and my sadness was now fully focused on my mum.

      I still hadn’t come to terms with her early onset dementia, and wasn’t sure I ever would. In fact, sometimes, on bad days, it was as though I’d already lost her, and yet she was still here, reminding me of the life we’d once had together.

      I’d first noticed the signs a year ago, just before her fiftieth birthday. The confusion and forgetfulness I’d witnessed back then would later be attributed to Alzheimer’s. It hadn’t seemed possible, and her rapid decline had made it even crueller.

      Zoe reached over and turned up the radio, as she sang along to ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’. It was as though she’d forgotten I was there. Zoned in to her singing, she continued to swing her red Clio along the spiralling country roads towards the spa, seeming oblivious to the frosty February evening – the chance of ice on the road. A sprinkling of snow had coated the pavement earlier, and the forecast promised snowstorms heading from Siberia. Slow down! Please.

      I stared her way, and as though sensing my eyes on her, she turned, and stopped mid-Galileo.

      ‘You OK, Rachel?’ she said, tucking her chestnut-brown hair behind her ears with both hands.

      ‘Hands on the wheel, Zoe, for Christ’s sake,’ I yelled.

      ‘Jeez, you don’t have to shout,’ she said, doing as I asked. ‘Are you OK?’ she repeated.

      ‘Of course.’ I smiled. Tonight I was determined to purge thoughts of Mum’s illness from my head and de-stress. Enjoy myself. Lawrence had Grace for the weekend, and the care home had my mobile number. I could relax. СКАЧАТЬ